


What Lies Beneath

by Morgan (morgan32)



Series: Slouching Toward Bethlehem [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, daddycest, evil!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-13
Updated: 2009-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean begins to unravel the mystery of what is happening to Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**2nd November 2006, 1.33 am**

Dean stared at O'Brien. He realised his mouth was open and closed it. He must look like an idiot. Finally, Dean found his voice and something of his usual cocky bravado. "Dude, what have you been smokin'?" The tone was right, but he was scared. Scared there could be some truth in this. He was more afraid of what O'Brien might do even if he were wrong.

O'Brien's intense gaze never left Dean's eyes. "You must listen to me, Winchester. I _can_ prove what I'm saying." His gun still pressed into Dean's side.

Dean nodded slowly. "Alright. Prove it."

O'Brien holstered the gun. Dean thought about making a move, but he wanted to see this "proof". So he waited. O'Brien reached into the pocket of his long coat. He drew out a small box and offered it to Dean.

Dean looked at it. It looked like the kind of box you get from a jeweller when you buy a ring or some girls' trinket. He opened his mouth to offer a wise-ass comment.

A deafening shot split the air. The bullet ripped through O'Brien's chest. Blood sprayed over Dean's shirt and the bullet hit the wall a bare inch away from his arm. Automatically, Dean hit the floor, reaching for the gun he'd dropped earlier. He rolled onto his side so the wall was at his back, scanning the darkness for the shooter.

Sam walked out of the shadows, a gun in his hand.

Sam? Sammy?

Dean stared at him, speechless for the moment. If his father were the shooter, Dean wouldn't have been so shocked. But Sammy? Sam didn't kill people. Monsters, sure. But Sam wouldn't even consider taking out Max Miller. And now, Sam had blown a hole through a man's chest for - as far as Dean could tell - no good reason.

Sam's expression as he stared down at the dead man was angry. He pointed the gun at the corpse, as if he was going to fire again. Then he ran to Dean's side.

"Dean! Are you okay?"

Dean found his voice. "What the hell? Dude, you almost hit me!"

"It looked like he was going for a weapon. I had to take the shot."

Dean started to get up slowly. As he got to his knees, he feigned a stumble and palmed the little box O'Brien had been about to show him. There was no time to check the contents. He rose to his feet. "Sam, what - "

"Dean!" It was John's voice and Dean whirled to face him. He saw John partway up the staircase, carrying a shotgun.

"Yes, sir," he said automatically.

"Do you have rubber in the car?"

"Yeah." Dean reached for his keys, anticipating the next order.

"Help Sam wrap the body. Now!"

Dean moved.

In minutes O'Brien's body was wrapped in a rubber sheet and, despite Dean's objections, he was helping to lay it into the back seat of his car. Reluctantly, he gave Sam his keys.

"Sam," John said, "can you handle this on your own?"

Sam nodded. "I know where I can ditch him."

"Good," said John curtly. "Go. Dean, with me."

A lifetime of obedience to his father kept Dean silent. He waited on the stairs until he could no longer see the Impala's tail lights. Then he followed John into the motel room above.

***

There was blood all over Dean's shirt. John couldn't tell if it was his. The cut on his face was bleeding but didn't look deep.

"Are you hurt?"

Dean closed the door behind him and shrugged. He touched his bleeding cheek. "It's a splinter, I think. Sam damn near hit both of us."

That wasn't what John meant, but it answered his question: the blood on Dean's shirt wasn't his. Relieved, John wet a cloth in the kitchenette sink and threw it to Dean.

"Dad, what the fuck is going on?"

The demand told John just how stressed he was feeling. He understood. First that exhausting exorcism, then Sam left him without a word, and after a long drive to California (and if John knew his son, he'd barely stopped on that journey) the first thing that happened was Sam killed a man in front of him. That would freak anyone out.

Dean wiped the blood from his face, revealing an older cut on his cheek. It looked like it had recently been stitched up.

"What happened to your cheek?"

"Demon in Jefferson City. Sam didn't tell you?"

John would have remembered if Sam had told him Dean was hurt. He frowned. "Must have slipped his mind."

Dean threw the cloth down on the table between them. "Dad, what the fuck is going on here? Ain't you even a little freaked that Sam just blew a hole through a man's chest?" Dean's eyes went wide suddenly. "Or was he somethin' else?"

John pulled out a chair and sat down wearily. "No, he was human. A hunter." He looked up at his son. "I'm the one who ordered Sam to shoot to kill."

"And when's the last time Sam obeyed an order like that?" Dean sat down, too.

Dean's question shot home. John raised his eyebrows. "Okay, I see your point." He half-removed his shirt to show Dean the wound in his arm. "O'Brien shot me. Sam was there when it happened but he didn't fire in time to save me some blood loss. So, no, Dean, I'm not freaked out because he might have been too quick on the trigger tonight. I'll sleep better tonight knowing O'Brien is dead." John stood again, pulling the shirt back on. "There's beer in the fridge if you want one. I'm going to get the police scanner from my truck."

Outside, there was a slight chill to the night air. John's flashlight picked out the pooled blood on the floor. The paving was uneven and cracked, so there was no way to clean up the blood without leaving visible traces. They would have to be out of here before anyone saw it. He retrieved the scanner from the truck, looking around at the other motel rooms while he walked back. There were no other lights on, no sign anyone was watching from behind the dark windows. No witnesses, then. They still needed to leave as soon as Sam returned.

Dean took the scanner from him and John was happy to let Dean set it up. John could do it, but Dean was much faster. He found the local police band and turned the volume up. There was some chatter but nothing about shots being fired.

Dean sat back, satisfied. "Dad, has Sam been...okay?"

John sighed. "He's been getting some bad headaches," he admitted.

"How bad?" Dean demanded.

"Bad enough to knock him off his feet."

"It's worse, then," Dean said. He looked up, frowning. "Dad, O'Brien was trying to tell me something. He said if I didn't listen to him you or Sam would be dead within a week."

Anger flared, hot and sudden. "Sounds like Sam was right to kill him," John said grimly.

Dean shook his head. "It wasn't a threat. He was..." Dean stopped abruptly and rose, walking away from the table. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

John felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool air. "He was what, son?" he asked gently.

Dean swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing. "O'Brien told me one of you is under demonic influence. He said he had proof."

"What proof?" John asked sharply.

"I don't fucking know!" Dean shouted. "Because right then Sammy killed the dude!"

John nodded, understanding. "O'Brien said something to me, too. About the yellow-eyed demon." He was hoping Dean would volunteer more, but Dean remained silent. John went on, "O'Brien thought I was his target."

Dean's eyes were flint-hard, angry. "You _knew_ about this?"

"I know what O'Brien believed," John returned calmly. "Dean, what's the matter with you? I've been hunting for a long time, kiddo, I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah," Dean groaned. "Sorry. God! I'm sorry." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I guess I'm more tired than I thought."

John swallowed. "Dean, do you believe Sam is possessed?" he asked seriously.

Dean hesitated, and that hesitation frightened John more than a straight _yes_ would have. Eventually, Dean answered, "No, I don't. But...a couple of times this past month he's been...there's _something_ goin' on with him, Dad. If you want the truth..."

"I do."

"I'd be happier if we could get Bobby's opinion."

John nodded. It was a good thought. "I already called Bobby."

"And?"

"Bobby, paranoid soul that he is, told me he tested all three of us while we were at his place. He's satisfied."

Dean didn't look convinced. "Okay, but Dad, when _you_ were possessed Sam tested you and it didn't work." He ran a hand through his hair again. "I don't think it's possession, Dad, but I'll tell you one thing. Killing O'Brien like that: that wasn't Sam. Sam would never have taken that shot."

"Not even to save your life?" Dean probably knew Sam better than John ever would, but John knew Sam would always shoot to save Dean. He'd trained his boys to look out for each other first, before everything. Even before their father.

But Dean answered at once. "That's the point, Dad. Maybe, to save you or me, Sam might kill a man. But that bullet went right through O'Brien and could have hit me, too. The angle he had, Sam never would have risked that shot. I know him, Dad!"

John shook his head. "After everything that's happened recently, maybe you don't know him as well as you think." He looked closely at Dean. "You should get some rest."

Dean nodded. "I guess so. Do you have a key to Sam's room? I can catch an hour's sleep while we wait for him."

John hesitated guiltily. "Sam's been sleeping here." Quickly, he added, "Not like that," though it was only half-true. "We knew O'Brien was watching so we've been sleeping in turns. Take the bed, Dean. I'll wake you when it's time to go."

Dean looked at him through narrowed eyes. John wasn't surprised: Dean knew him well enough to know he was lying. He waited for the accusation but it didn't come. Dean nodded and walked over to the bed. He unlaced his boots and lay down, fully dressed.

John settled himself beside the police scanner, laid his shotgun on the table, and waited.

***

"Dean. Son, wake up!"

Dean jerked awake. "Dad, what is is?" he mumbled. "Is Sam back?"

"No. Get up." John's tone was urgent and it sluiced away the last of Dean's tiredness. He sat up on the bed and reached down for his boots. He didn't ask questions. John would tell him when he was ready.

John had his canvas bag open and was quickly filling it with clothing. "There's been a fire. I heard it on the scanner. The address is Sam's old place."

Dean stared. "Where's Sam?"

"He's not back yet. We can't wait."

Dean didn't ask any more questions. He laced his boots and helped John pack. It didn't take long: they had this down to a fine art from years on the road together. John packed the salt and the weapons; Dean emptied the closet. John retrieved his toothbrush and shaving gear from the bathroom; Dean salvaged any food that would travel from the refrigerator and cupboards. In less than twenty minutes they'd packed John's truck and Dean was stuffing the last of a peanut butter sandwich into his mouth. John scrawled co-ordinates on a piece of motel stationary and pinned it to the door for Sam.

Dean wanted to insist on waiting. Damn it, Sam had his car! But he trusted John knew what he was doing. Dean checked his gun as he settled himself into the truck. That's when he saw the lights of the Impala ahead. "Dad!"

"I see him." Relief was clear in John's voice. He turned the key in the ignition. "It's best if we take different routes out of state. Meet me in Hawthorne."

"Yes, sir." Dean leapt out of the truck just as Sam pulled up beside them. He opened the Impala's door and slid inside.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

"Dad says we've got to go. Better drive, Sam."

"Where?"

"Hawthorne, Nevada."

Sam looked at him. "You're kidding me, right?"

Dean shrugged. "Dad's orders are we meet in Hawthorne."

"Fine." As the truck roared past them, Sam gunned the engine and followed John onto the road.

***

Sam was driving, and as much as Dean wanted answers, he was still too tired to do anything but sleep. He slept with one hand on his gun, but he _did_ sleep. He woke as Sam stopped the car outside a roadside diner. The sun was quite high; Dean guessed it was mid-morning. He stretched as best he could in the confines of the seat. "Where are we?" he yawned.

"Nevada." Sam answered. "About an hour away from Hawthorne. I've been awake all night, dude, and most of last night, too. I need espresso. Lots of it."

Dean looked up at the diner as he climbed out of the car. "From this place? Good luck." He grinned, trying to feel normal, just another day. Back in the game.

The diner wasn't too bad. The waitress was young and hot enough to provide some distraction and they did serve espresso. The food was average but the portions were big, which suited Dean. He ordered extra pancakes. The waitress told him she liked a man with a healthy appetite.

As Dean sat down, one sharp corner of the small box he'd taken from O'Brien dug painfully into his thigh. Dean felt as if the box was burning a hole in his pocket. He hadn't mentioned it to his father. That hadn't been intentional: he was just so damn tired he'd forgotten all about it. Now he wished he'd said something. O'Brien claimed he had proof, then offered Dean this box. What could possibly be in there that would prove what he'd said?

Dean watched Sam staring out of the window as he drank his third espresso. Sam had not asked why they left in such a hurry. Perhaps he'd assumed it was because of the shooting, but it wasn't like Sam not to ask. It especially wasn't like Sam when John was involved...unless he already knew about the fire. But if he did, wouldn't he be talking about it?

These pancakes weren't bad. The maple syrup was sweet on Dean's tongue. "Why'd you ditch me, Sammy?" he asked in between mouthfuls.

Sam set his empty cup on the table. "Sorry," he muttered.

_No, you're not._ "I don't care from 'sorry', Sam. I want to know why."

Sam sighed. "Because you were acting so weird I should have been testing you with holy water. Because I couldn't have an honest conversation with Dad if you were there. And, honestly, because that exorcism freaked me out and you made it worse."

Dean put down his fork. "Fuck. Sammy, _I_ was freaked out, okay? I know I was acting like an ass, but give me a break here."

Sam nodded. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean returned with a grin. "I'm drivin'."

Sam laid the car keys on the table, but he didn't smile back. "There's something I didn't tell Dad. I had that vision again, of Dad killing himself."

Dean felt a chill. He met his brother's eyes. "You still don't know when? Or why?"

"When, no. I did see something else, though. Two things, but it's like pieces of a jigsaw. I can't tell what the big picture looks like."

"Dude, what did you see?" Dean asked urgently.

Sam turned to gaze out of the window again. "I saw you. Um...it was dark and you were really upset. I mean, you were crying. You aimed a gun at something. But that's all. I didn't see what it was or what happened." He hesitated, then went on, "The second thing was Dad." Sam turned to Dean. "Do you remember that time in Alabama, what Dad did to the witch who tried to kill you?"

Dean frowned. Yeah, he remembered. He'd been eighteen and scared more afraid of his father than he had been of the murderous witch. John didn't often lose control like that. Dean nodded. "What about it?"

"Well, I saw the look on Dad's face right before he...you know. And this other vision, it was like that. Dad was looking at something or someone the same way. Like he wanted to tear it apart. But he just walked away from it."

"Why?"

Sam shrugged. "You got me. That's all I saw." He looked down at the scratched table top. "Something's coming, Dean. Something bad and...and I don't think we're gonna win this time."

Dean took that in silently. He took out his wallet and laid a couple of bills on the table. "I'll meet you outside," he said, gathering up his car keys. "Gotta take a leak." He headed out of the diner quickly.

The toilets were around the corner and Dean headed that way, but he didn't go in. He leaned against the wall beside the toilet door and dug into his pocket for the small box O'Brien gave him. He opened it carefully. Inside, he found white gauze padding, just like you get in a jewellery box. Dean lifted the gauze to reveal what was underneath.

"Holy crap!" he said aloud.

It was a bullet. Just one. A bullet Dean recognised, because it belonged to the Colt. He understood, now, what O'Brien meant by proof.

One thing was very clear: Dean couldn't let _anyone_ know he had this. Not until he understood what was going on.

Dean stuffed the box back into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He needed answers, fast. Who to call? Only weeks before he would have called Caleb for help on something like this. Caleb was dead now. Bobby? Though Dean had suggested going to Bobby when John asked him, he was less sure suddenly. Bobby knew Dean and his family too well. He might make connections Dean didn't want anyone to make just yet. No, he needed someone who knew the job, but who didn't have, as John put it, Bobby's paranoid soul.

He pulled up a number and pushed the call button. It was answered on the second ring.

"H'lo?" Jo mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep.

"It's Dean. Did I wake you?"

"Dean? Oh. No." She was lying. She was shaking off sleep even as she spoke.

"Jo, sweetheart, I need help."

"With a hunt?"

"Uh, yeah, but not the regular kind."

"What do you need?" She sounded wide awake now, and Dean pictured her sitting up in bed, her blonde hair tousled, maybe wearing a cute little pink camisole... No. Jo was more likely to sleep in a combat shirt.

"You know what happened to Sam's girl a year ago?"

"I know she was killed by the same demon John's been hunting. A fire, right?"

"Right. Exactly a year ago. Tonight there was another fire in the same building. Jo, I can't get there, I gotta take care of something else. Someone's got to check it out."

"What's the address?"

Dean gave it to her.

"I'll ask Ash to look into it, but I've got some cash saved. I can fly out there today. If you think that'll help."

Dean breathed easier. "Jo, thanks. I owe you one. Be careful, okay? And whatever you find, just call me. Don't try to, you know, do anything. Not on your own."

"Why? What do you think this is?"

Dean felt the bullet in his pocket. "I hope I'm wrong, but I think...I think you're gonna find sulphur."

***

"What the hell is this?" Sam burst into John's motel room, brandishing a newspaper.

John looked up, confused by the anger in Sam's voice. "What's wrong? Where's Dean?"

"He's getting gas." Sam threw the newspaper at John. "I bought that from the general store. It says there was a fire last night in Palo Alto. How could you not tell me, Dad? These were my friends!"

John opened the newspaper. The fire was headline news. Building destroyed, no survivors. Damn. He looked up at Sam, whose expression still demanded answers.

"Son, all I knew was that there was a fire. I didn't know anyone died."

"You're lying!"

Sam looked at him, just looked, and John was suddenly airborne. He slammed into the wall, cracking the glass of a picture hung there, and slid to the floor. John tried to push himself away from the wall, but couldn't move. John's mouth was dry with fear. Fear of his own son. He met Sam's eyes, fully expecting to see them coal-black, but they were human eyes. No demonic black, nor any sign of the yellow-gold glow Dean thought he'd seen before.

"Sam!" Dear god...

Abruptly, John was free, and falling.

Sam ran toward him. "Dad!" There was panic in his voice. "Dad, I'm sorry!"

John raised a hand in a "stop" gesture. Sam skidded to a halt, a short distance away from John. John straightened up and approached Sam warily.

Only demons could do what Sam just did. Human telekinetics could move objects, but Sam didn't just move him. He _held_ him there, immobile. No living human could do that.

It was a slap in the face. Sam already knew it. Dean suspected. Hell, John had suspected, too, he realised. Sam read his mind the other day. Humans couldn't do that, either, but John let himself believe it was coincidence that Sam used the exact words he had been thinking. Now, he had no choice but to face the truth.

His Sammy had demonic powers.

"Dad?" Sam said uncertainly.

With an effort, John schooled his expression to neutral. "It's okay, Sammy." He bent down to pick up the newspaper. "Last night," he explained, "I was monitoring the police bands in case someone saw you kill O'Brien. I heard about the fire. I knew that if I told you, you'd want to go there, so I decided not to tell you. I didn't know how bad it was. I had no idea anyone died." He shook out the newspaper, revealing a photograph of the burned out building - or, what was left of it. He showed it to Sam. "That's not the result of a fire, son. That's an explosion. There was nothing you could have done."

"That's not the point," Sam answered mullishly.

"They were your friends," John said, understanding. Only the day before, Sam had been talking with them. But there was nothing they could do now. He needed to move past this, to get _Sam_ to move past it. "Where did you dump the body?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

Sam shot him an angry look, but he answered the question. "Graveyard. I found a recent grave."

"Good thinking." John relaxed a little, turning toward the bed.

"We should go back," Sam said.

"To Palo Alto?"

"This fire...I must have missed something, Dad. Whatever did this..."

"No!" John snapped. "No, if any of us is going back there it'll have to be Dean, and even that's dangerous. Sam, you killed a man last night. You're also connected to the fire there last year. If you go back, you could end up a suspect. Think about it, son."

Sam shook his head. "Try and stop me." He turned toward the door.

John caught Sam's arm and yanked him around. "I gave you an order."

"Fuck your orders!"

John half expected Sam to push him away, but instead Sam grabbed onto his arms.

Sam's face screwed up in pain. "Oh, god..." His hands gripped John's forearms tightly, but his body seemed to lose all of its strength and Sam slid to the ground. John knelt with him, worried. Sam threw his head back, his breathing tight with obvious pain.

Enough was enough, John thought. He would have to find a doctor for Sam, and soon. But where could he find a neurologist who knew anything about their world? He didn't know, but there were a few people he could ask. John held Sam close, feeling his body relax as the pain faded. He held Sam the way he'd held him through childhood nightmares and half a dozen childhood fevers. But Sam was an adult now; he couldn't take comfort the way he did then. John stroked Sam's hair gently. "Sam. Sam, are you okay?"

Sam didn't answer.

John drew back from him and tilted Sam's face up so he could see him. There were tears shining in Sam's frightened eyes. Was it a vision this time?

"It's too late," Sam whispered. He reached up to John, touching his face, his eyes pleading. "I feel like I'm losing pieces of myself. Like...every time this...happens...I...I die a little more."

Fear clenched John's gut. "Don't say that!" He hugged Sam close. "Don't ever say that!"

"What?" Sam asked, and his voice was stronger now. "What did I say?"

John drew back once more. "Don't you remember?"

Sam looked down. "I...uh...no, I guess not. Last thing I remember saying was _fuck your orders_. Is that what you meant?"

"No, son."

"Then what?"

"Dean," John said, seeing him. He stood and offered a hand to help Sam up. "Sam had another headache," he explained.

Dean's frown smoothed out, but he still looked worried. "They're getting worse," he said.

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

John led Sam to the bed. "I'm going to make some calls, find out if there's a doctor we can consult who knows something about our world. If there's not, we'll just go for the best I can find. Okay, Sam?"

Sam sat down on the bed, nodding.

"No more driving. If you have an attack like that at the wheel, you could kill yourself."

Sam smiled weakly. "I thought of that."

"Get some rest. I'll be back in a few hours." John reached for his coat. "Dean." He headed for the door, knowing Dean would follow him.

Outside John's room, Dean closed the door behind them. "What is it?"

John closed the door behind them. "I want you to take care of Sammy. Stay with him. Don't let him out of your sight."

Dean glanced back at the closed door. "Yes, sir. But why?"

"These headaches are linked to Sam's psychic ability somehow. I need to know if what's happening is dangerous to him. I'll be a couple of hours, that's all."

"Okay."

John knew there were still too many unanswered questions. He added, reluctantly, "When I get back, how long will it take you to drive to Palo Alto?"

Dean met his eyes. "You want me to check out the fire?"

John nodded. "Yes." It was only as he said it that he realised what a relief it was to have Dean around. Dean, who wouldn't delay him with unnecessary questions. Dean, who he could trust to follow his orders to the letter. "How long?" John repeated.

Dean smiled. "I've already got someone checking it out. She should be there by now."

"She?" John repeated, startled. "Who?"

"Jo Harvelle."

John leaned back against the wall. "You sent Jo on a hunt? Ellen will have your balls in a vice. And mine!"

Dean laughed. "It ain't a hunt, Dad. I just asked her to take a look around. She's a smart kid. She knows what to look for."

Something in Dean's voice made John look at him, more sharply than he intended. "What's between you and Jo?" he asked.

Dean returned his look steadily. "You asking if I slept with her?"

John never quizzed his boys about their sex lives, beyond making sure they knew to stay safe - in every sense. He wasn't asking Dean about sex. He'd seen him with Jo and knew Dean would have screwed her if she gave him the chance. So he shook his head. "No, I'm asking if it's more than that."

Dean hesitated, which answered the question, in a way. "No," he said.

John nodded curtly. "Good. Keep it that way." He offered no explanation, though this order he would have explained if Dean asked. Dean didn't. John checked his pocket for his keys. "Stay with Sam. I don't mean you have to stay here, just don't leave him alone. Call me if anything happens." He began to walk away as Dean turned to go back into the room.

"Dad?"

John turned around. "Yes, son?"

"Is Sam...himself?"

John knew how hard it was for Dean to ask that question. He answered as truthfully as he could. "He's not possessed, but there's something...not right. We've both noticed that."

"O'Brien told me - "

"Not now, Dean. We'll talk later."

***

**Night**

John leaned closer to the bathroom mirror, drawing the razor carefully across his skin. He rubbed his face with a towel, getting rid of the last traces of shaving foam and met his own eyes in the mirror. With his hair wet and combed back, the streaks of grey were barely visible. He thought he looked okay for his age, but below the neck his body showed a lot of wear and tear. The cut on his neck stood out starkly under the artificial light. John touched the wound through his shoulder. There was no pain and the wound was healing well, thanks to Sam. Satisfied, John adjusted the towel around his waist and headed into the bedroom.

Sam was there, waiting on John's bed. He wore his usual jeans and a clean t-shirt. His feet were bare. John hadn't heard him come in.

Sam looked up as John walked in and his eyes widened a little. He smiled and his eyes dropped to John's towel.

John held on to the towel self-consciously. "What are you doing here, Sammy?"

"Waiting." Sam stood and began to unbuckle his belt.

John thought about telling him to stop and get out. He thought about trying to explain, again, how wrong this was. Instead, he moved toward Sam, knowing that the towel he wore didn't conceal a damned thing. As Sam slipped his belt out of the loops, John reached out and unbuttoned Sam's jeans. He drew the zipper down, meeting Sam's eyes as he did so. Sam's eyes were dark, dilated with desire.

"Slow," Sam said quietly. "I want slow."

"I think I can handle that," John answered. He hooked his thumbs inside Sam's jeans and pushed them down, slowly, all the way to his ankles. John knelt as he bent down and the towel came loose, pooling around his feet. He ignored it. Sam stepped out of the jeans. John ran his hands up Sam's legs, cupping his buttocks. He leaned in, the scent of his son filling him. The shape of Sam's erection was clear beneath the stretched material of his briefs. John mouthed Sam's cock through the cotton, tracing the shape with his lips. He heard Sam groan. Encouraged, he pulled Sam's pants down a little, exposing his cock. Sam's breathing deepened. John kissed the tip of Sam's erection, but didn't take it into his mouth. _Slow_, Sam wanted.

John rose to his feet and took Sam's face between his hands. He looked into Sam's eyes, searching, but his fears seemed foolish now. It was wrong to love his son in this way, but he refused to believe it was evil.

Sam smiled suddenly. "Dad, what?"

"Sam," John breathed, aware of the irony even as the words came to him, "I wish your mother could see you. She would be so proud." That wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but he saw in the softening of Sam's expression that he understood. John kissed Sam then, parting his lips and drawing Sam's tongue into his mouth. They clung to each other, the kiss deepening as they moved toward the bed. John moaned when Sam palmed his cock, rubbing slowly. He allowed Sam to push him back onto the bed. Sam's kisses traced the line of his jaw. Sam's tongue, wet and warm, explored his neck, tasted the healing wound.

The silken hardness of Sam's cock lay heavily against John's belly. One of Sam's knees pushed between John's thighs, pressing gently against his balls. He ran a hand up Sam's back, savouring the sensation of the warm, smooth skin against his palm, and cupped the back of Sam's neck, holding Sam's head to him as Sam's mouth moved to John's chest. John felt the edge of Sam's teeth, just enough pressure to hurt. His back arched involuntarily and he cried out.

Sam laughed against his skin and bit down on John's nipple. The sensation was too much. John grasped Sam's shoulders and rolled them both over so Sam was beneath him. He kissed Sam hard, thrusting against him. "Sam! Sammy..."

***

"Sammy..." His father's cry reached Dean through the glass of the window. There was a small crack in the curtains and through it Dean saw everything. He couldn't look away.

The scene should have repulsed him. Dean, watching his father caress Sam's body with lips and tongue and hands, felt his heart break in two. There was no place for him in this. They were his family and Dean wanted them to be together as a family. He wanted Sam and their dad to get along but this... They had found a way to be together, but it was a way that excluded Dean completely.

Sex, for him, was a physical act. He could take his time over it, make it good, and girls appreciated that, but no matter how great it was, it was just fucking. He'd never wanted it any other way. Dean watched his father and brother make love and knew they'd found a place he couldn't go.

Dean remained where he was, watching. He stayed because John had ordered him not to let Sam out of his sight. He stayed, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, playing idly with the single, precious bullet he still hadn't mentioned to John.

***

John knelt between Sam's spread thighs and ran his hands over Sam's firm buttocks. Sam stretched out beneath him, lying flat on his stomach with his arms wrapped around the pillow. John leaned forward and ran his tongue up the hollow of Sam's spine, tasting salty sweat. Sam shuddered at the touch, moaning softly. John blew gently on the wetness his tongue left on Sam's skin and Sam shivered.

The muscles of Sam's back rippled beneath his skin as he moved, writhing on the bed. John's mouth explored every scar and every bruise. Some of those bruises he had put there himself. Many of the scars he didn't recognise. Sam was 23 and he bore more battle scars than John himself had at that age.

"Dad," Sam groaned. "Dad, please."

John reached for the lube and slicked himself up quickly. He parted Sam's buttocks with his hands and slowly sank into Sam's body. Sam let out a breath as John entered him, a long sigh of pleasure.

_Slow_, Sam had said and this was slow. John rested his arms alongside Sam's chest so his elbows bore most of his weight and he lay, skin to skin, above Sam's body. He moved inside Sam, slow, deep thrusts, making the most of the moment. He felt Sam writhe beneath him.

"Sam," he whispered, kissing Sam's shoulder, breathing deeply of his scent.

"Dad. Oh, god, Dad, fuck me!"

John obeyed his son's urging.

***

Dean was still outside the window when his phone rang. He answered it quickly.

"Yeah, this is Dean."

"It's Jo. You were right. There are sulphur traces all over this place."

"Crap." Dean turned away from the window. "Are you there now, Jo?"

"I'm right outside the building. What's left of it. It looks like a missile hit this place."

Dean didn't comment: he had already seen the picture in the newspaper. "Is there any sign of anything still there?"

"It seems quiet." Jo was silent for a moment. "There is one thing. I talked to Ash and he hacked into the police and fire department reports of the fire. You know there were no survivors from the fire?"

Dean nodded grimly. "I know."

"Technically three people escaped - they weren't home at the time. But there were two bodies found in the wreckage that haven't been identified. Both men, neither of them resident in the building."

"Do you have any kind of description?" Dean asked.

"Are you kidding? Dean, those bodies are so badly burned they've been using dental records."

Crap. She was right. Still, the autopsy should provide some minimal details: approximate height, weight, maybe race. He didn't press. "Okay, Jo. Thanks."

"I'm gonna stick around for a while, see if I can talk to some witnesses. If I get anything I'll call you. Or come and get you. Where are you staying?"

Dean chuckled softly. "We're in Hawthorne, Nevada, but I don't think we're staying. Call me, okay?"

"Okay. See you around, Dean."

Dean shut off his phone and took a deep breath of the night air, steeling himself to turn back to his father's window. He didn't much like the view. He turned around.

A pair of yellow eyes were watching him from behind the glass.

Dean had no time to register that sight, let alone react to it, before his body was airborne. He rose, flailing, into the air above the parking lot and fell, unable to save himself, down to the ground. He landed awkwardly, one leg crumpling beneath him as he sprawled on the ground. Dean tried to raise his head and saw his car moving toward him, silently, gaining speed. No one was driving the Impala, she was just coming at him. He tried to scramble out of the way, but it was too late.

The Impala hit him, his head and her grille taking the worst of the impact. _You son of a bitch,_ Dean yelled inside his head,_ that's my car!_

Then there was nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

John pushed the comforter aside as Sam walked back to the bed. He saw Sam's smile, and smiled back. He felt drained, but pleasantly so...but they couldn't spend the entire night together.

"Maybe," he suggested, "you should be getting back to Dean."

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, half-turned away from John. The outline of his nude body was a perfect sculpture in the darkness. "Don't worry about Dean," Sam said softly. He ran a hand over John's thigh.

"Ain't you tired yet?" John grinned.

Sam looked down at the floor. "Yes, you're right," he said, his voice still very soft. "I am tired of this game."

_Game?_ John sat up, drawing a breath to speak. Then Sam looked at him and he saw Sam's eyes. Yellow eyes that John recognised. Instantly he reached for the holy water beside his bed. Sam moved so fast John barely saw it, snatching the bottle and throwing it across the room.

"Not this time, John." The voice was Sam's, but the cadence of his voice, the malicious smile...those were alien. No, not alien. Horribly familiar.

It was only weeks since John himself had been possessed by that yellow-eyed bastard. He remembered what it was like to be unable to control his own body or his voice. He remembered that evil seeping into every crevice of his soul, learning his darkest secrets, and using them against him and his boys. He remembered being forced to watch as it tortured Dean. The memories stole John's breath and froze him in place for a moment. It was hatred, not fear, but he fought it down. His hatred was selfish. It couldn't help Sam.

John forced himself to meet the demon's yellow eyes. "Get. The fuck. Out. Of my son."

The demon laughed. It was Sam's laugh, rich and warm. "I'm curious, John. What exactly do you think you have left to bargain with?" His fingers stroked John's bare thigh idly. "I already own you, John. Body..." his fingertips brushed John's balls, making him draw breath sharply, "...and soul."

John tried to jerk away from that touch. He couldn't move. His body simply refused to obey him, just as it had earlier when Sam held him against the wall. When Sam... Oh, fuck, how long had the demon been in Sam? Was he already possessed that morning. Was it there when he and Sam...when they made love? The thought made him feel sick.

"You can take me instead," John offered desperately.

Sam laid a hand on his chest. "Oh, I'm touched," he said sarcastically. "Sorry. It doesn't work that way. Sammy bought this ticket himself."

"What the fuck does that mean?" John tried to force his body to move, hell, even just a finger, but he failed. The demon's power held him, seemingly effortlessly, on the bed.

Sam - _(Christ, stop thinking of him as Sammy!)_ \- the demon looked at John speculatively. "You know, John, I think you've caught me in a generous mood. I owe you one, so I'm going to answer that question." His hand moved from John's thigh to his cock, Sam's big hand cupping him. John couldn't pull away, so he did his best to ignore it. It was meant as a distraction.

"I know you wanted the Colt because you thought it could kill me," the demon said. "You were right about that, John, but there's a catch. You see, _I can't die_. Not even the Colt can break the rules, John." He leaned over John's body, stroking John's limp cock. "So, there's a simple way to resolve the paradox. If you kill me, _you become me_." His face was very close to John's, those sickly yellow eyes filling John's vision. "Sammy pulled the trigger, so Sammy won the grand prize." The demon kissed John on his lips, a gentle touch, a flutter of tongue. John wanted to vomit, but to his horror his body reacted to the caresses. The hands that touched him were Sam's, and his body didn't care who was driving.

The demon chuckled, drawing his bottom lip through his teeth. It had noticed John's reaction. Well, he couldn't exactly hide it with Sam's hand on his dick.

_If you kill me, you become me._ It was an old, old story. John knew the legends, from many cultures, but he had never thought they might apply to demons. Most of the stories were about humans: the guardian of some sacred treasure was granted immortality for as long as he (or sometimes she) was the guardian. In many stories, a would-be thief would appear and kill the guardian for the treasure he held, thus becoming the next guardian, immortal until someone came along to kill _him_. And that was the connection, John realised. What happens when you kill something immortal?

Hunters like John spoke of "killing" demons, but what that usually meant was "send them back to Hell". The Colt was supposed to be able to kill _anything_, and John believed the legend...but it was a damn hard theory to test. Too late, now.

John stared back at the demon with Sam's face. If this were true, then the demon had been inside Sam since the hospital. It had been in Sam for weeks. That couldn't be true.

Sam smiled again. "Nice catch, John," he said, as if John had spoken his thoughts aloud. He was still leaning over John, still stroking him firmly. "The Colt," he went on conversationally, "couldn't make me die, but it sure did hurt me. I planted a seed of myself in Sammy, and it took time for it - for me - to grow inside him."

John's body betrayed him. The relentless hand on his cock pushed him over the edge, tore a cry of frustration and unwanted pleasure from his throat as he orgasmed for the third time that night. Hot semen splashed his belly. A distraction, it was just a distraction. The violation was nothing. It meant nothing. John opened his eyes, humiliated and angry.

The demon finally quit touching him. It stood, wiping Sam's hand on the sheet.

"You're lying," John spat defiantly. He still couldn't move.

"You know I'm not," Sam answered, "but I'm not done." He laughed. "And, I really want to tell you this part because I know you'll...appreciate it, John." Sam was pacing now, beside the bed. "You see, I was vulnerable, then, trapped inside Sammy. If you'd realised I was there, if you had the balls to kill him before I was strong...well, I might have been stuck in Hell for centuries while I healed. It wasn't easy to take hold of Sammy. You raised him well, Johnny. He's such a _good_ boy. I needed a way in. A thread of evil in his soul that I could use to unravel him." Sam patted John's arm. "It was _you_ who created it for me."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" John demanded. He was afraid he knew.

Sam leaned over and whispered the word into John's ear. "Incest." He drew out the "s" sounds so it was like the hissing of a snake.

John closed his eyes, struggling to control his expression. He would not give this demonic bastard the satisfaction.

The demon chuckled. "It's so delicious. I couldn't have planned it better. You led Sammy into incest. You knew it was a sin. So did he. And I didn't even need to nudge him. I really should be thanking you, John." He stretched out his arms, examining his hands. "This is such a fine body..." He stopped, looking at John as if a new thought occurred to him. "Oh, but you already know that, don't you? You enjoyed this body a lot. Bet you never guessed we were _both_ fucking your baby boy - "

"You son of a bitch!" John raged. If he could have moved in that moment, he would have broken the demon's neck with his bare hands and never cared, until too late, that the body was his son's. He struggled against the power that held him, fought as never before, but nothing worked.

"Careful, John, you're gonna give yourself a stroke," the demon said casually.

John took a deep breath and shouted his rage, loud and long and wordless. It was becoming clear now, and he saw how badly he had failed his son. He should have seen this much sooner.

The exorcism that gave the boys so much trouble: Sam was...no, not possessed. _Infected_ by a demonic presence. No wonder the exorcism didn't work. No wonder the demon obeyed Sam at the end. Dean tested Sam for possession, after, but he'd used holy water. They knew that wouldn't work on the yellow-eyed demon. It was too old, older than the Christian Church, so Christian rites had no power over it. But by testing Sam, Dean had given his suspicion away. Dean was a good hunter; he would have figured out a better test, so the demon made Sam leave him...and sent Sam to John who played right into he demon's hands because he couldn't keep his hands off his own son.

How could he?

"Sam's headaches?" John asked, but he already knew. Sam had told him. _I feel like I'm losing pieces of myself. Every time this happens I die a little more._

This time, the demon ignored the question. It picked up Sam's pants from the floor and began to put them on.

John knew it wouldn't work, but he had to try. "If you stay in Sam's body," John said carefully, "you can't use him. I know about your plans for the children. You _need_ Sam."

The demon buckled Sam's belt. Somehow, clothing made the yellow of his eyes less visible. He looked much more like Sam. The demon bent to retrieve Sam's shirt. "You're right," he said eventually. "It's a loss. I had big plans for Sammy. But there are other children like him."

John forced a smile to his lips, shaking his head. "Not like my Sam." It was a last, desperate ploy. He kept his voice low, persuasive. "Leave him. You know he's more useful to you as Sam."

The demon laughed. "Nice try, John." He finished dressing and sat down on the nightstand beside the bed. "You don't really want me to leave this body, John. What's left of Sammy isn't anything you'd enjoy seeing."

"Then he's dead." Every word was a knife in John's heart. _Sammy. Oh, son, I'm so sorry._ His rebellious son...John fought for so long to keep him safe. Now it was too late.

"Dead?" the demon repeated. "Oh, that's an exaggeration, John. A corpse is no good to me. Now..." he leaned forward, almost close enough to kiss John, "we had a deal, John," he whispered.

"Trading Sam for Dean wasn't the deal."

"You should always check the fine print, Johnny. Sam was never part of our bargain. So he's fair game. And you still owe me."

It was true. A deal was a deal, and John had considered it a good trade at the time. Dean's life was worth the price. But it hadn't just been about Dean. John needed Dean to live to keep Sam safe. And now...

The demon snapped his fingers suddenly. "I'll tell you what. You've been a big help with Sammy, and I'm feeling generous tonight. So I'm gonna give you a little time." He did kiss John then, a lingering touch of his lips to John's. "We'll have eternity, John. I can wait for that."

"Fuck you!"

"Now, now. I'm doing you a favour." The demon walked toward the door. "Don't worry. I'll come for you when I'm ready. Oh, and - " he turned back briefly " - don't forget you owe me the Colt, too."

_Why?_ John wondered. He had agreed to hand over the Colt, true, but it was useless without its bullets...wasn't it? There were no bullets left.

The demon opened the motel room door. It looked back at John one last time. Its eyes were dark and clear, no sign of that sickly yellow. "Oh, speaking of reading the fine print, you should probably check on Dean. He really shouldn't peer through windows. I had to hit him pretty hard, but I think he'll live. This time."

The demon walked out, slamming the motel room door.

_Dean! Oh, god, not Dean, too!_

It was a few moments before John could move. When the demon's power finally released him, John leapt up, scrambling into his clothing in record time. He ran outside without stopping for shoes, or even a gun.

He found Dean in the parking lot, unconscious.

There was no sign of Sam.

***

Dean felt something cool and hard covering his face and reached up to push it away. Someone caught his hand and Dean's eyes flew open. Above him, he saw the roof of an ambulance and a paramedic standing over him. The thing covering Dean's face was an oxygen mask. Dean's head hurt. _Everything_ hurt.

The paramedic leaned over him, still holding his hand in hers. "Dean? It's Dean, right?"

Dean tried to reply but the breather mask was in the way. He pulled his hand away from the paramedic's touch and pushed the mask aside. The movement hurt.

"Where's my dad?" he demanded urgently. "My brother?"

"Your father's okay, he's going to meet us at the E.R. I don't know anything about your brother. No one else was hurt, just you."

Dean relaxed. They were okay.

His vision was already grey at the edges. Grey, then black.

***

The next time Dean woke, he was in a hospital bed. He tried to sit up and his head swam.

"Dean!" It was John's voice. "It's okay, son. Just relax." John moved into Dean's field of vision, dragging a chair closer to the bed.

Usually, when John said something like _it's okay,_ he was telling the truth. One look at his father's pale, drawn face told Dean something was very wrong. John looked like he hadn't slept for a week, but it was more than that. His shoulders were slumped, there was no life in his eyes. He looked...defeated.

"Dad, what's happened? Where's Sam?"

John answered, speaking slowly, as if he was carefully choosing each word. "I found you unconscious in the parking lot. Do you remember anything?"

"In the parking lot?" Dean repeated. He remembered O'Brien stopping him and dying, Sam's bullet flying through his chest. But that wasn't right.

It came back in a rush. Yellow eyes behind the curtain. Falling. The car bearing down on him.

"My car! Son of a bitch hit me with my car!"

"Who hit you?"

"Demon." Dean sat up quickly - and regretted it, but didn't lie back down. "Oh, god, Dad. It was the demon. That yellow-eyed bastard!"

John closed his eyes briefly. He didn't seem surprised.

John nodded wearily. "Right. Listen, Dean. The doc says you've got a bad concussion but nothing else is broken. They want to keep you here for 24 hours, just in case."

"Shit. Do I have to?" Dean protested. He felt fine! Well, except for the headache and the way the room wouldn't stay still.

"I think you should, son. Here..." he reached for a bag he'd hooked over the back of his chair. "I brought your things from the motel." He laid the bag on the floor beside the bed.

"Dad," Dean asked again. "Where's Sam?" Something bad was going on. Dean was getting scared.

John shook his head. "Dean, I'm so sorry."

Dean swallowed. "Cut the crap, Dad. Where's Sam? He's not...?" The word _dead_ stuck in his throat. But what else could put that look on his father's face?

"There's so much I haven't told you, Dean. I meant to explain everything weeks ago, but after that hunt in Nebraska..." John drew his chair closer. "I need you to listen to me now, son, because there isn't much time."

Dean nodded.

"The last time you were in a hospital, I told you something big was coming."

It wasn't the last time. In fact, it felt like a hundred years ago. But Dean didn't argue. "You said I had to save Sam, or I'd have to kill him. But I thought that was over when you killed..." He stopped. He'd been about to say _when you killed the demon_. The demon Dean saw in John's room, right before he went flying. But _Sam_ had been with John... Oh, god, no. His eyes went wide. "Dad, what happened to Sam?"

John hesitated and Dean could see the pain in his expression. Whatever it was, it was bad. It was costing John a great deal to speak.

"Sam is...he's gone, Dean."

"Gone? What does that _mean_?"

"You saw the demon last night. Didn't you see it was Sam?"

"He's possessed?" Dean pushed the blankets aside, fully intending to get out of bed. "Well, let's find him and exorcise his ass!" A wave of dizziness forced him to lie down again. Shit.

John shook his head slowly. "I can't. Dean - " he held up a hand, cutting off Dean's objections. "When I said you might have to kill Sam, I wasn't just trying to scare you. You boys are everything to me, son, but what this demon wants to do is bigger than our family. More important than all of us."

"But...we can't just leave Sam!" Dean couldn't believe he was hearing this. John couldn't mean to abandon Sammy. He just couldn't!

John stood, avoiding Dean's eyes. He walked away a few paces, rubbing his face with one hand. "Son, I know O'Brien told you something before he died. You've had your own suspicions about Sam. You've got to understand that what's happened to Sammy is more complicated than possession." John bowed his head, and the next words were muffled, barely audible. "I don't know how to help him."

"Well, for starters we've got to find him!"

John turned back to face Dean. "I agree. But first I have to make sure people are warned. The right people."

Dean, cursing his injury, stared at his father. Was he really saying that Sam was less important than... "Use the freaking phone, Dad."

"I will. I have. But some things I have to do in person. Dean, this demon now knows everything Sam knows. Our friends could be in danger."

John was lying. Dean didn't know why, but he was sure of it. He knew his father. He knew every look, every nuance of expression and he could tell that whatever John's reason for not going after Sammy, it had nothing to do with their friends. That was an excuse: a plausible reason to cover something he didn't want Dean to know.

Dean knew his father, so he knew he wouldn't get anywhere by demanding answers. He had to play along, accept the lie and hope the truth would come out.

He took a deep breath, and that didn't hurt. Progress. "Dad...you don't know where Sam - where the demon is, do you?"

John shook his head: no. "I can track demonic activity: the omens, but there are no guarantees, Dean."

Dean almost said, _Christo_, because this utter defeat was so unlike his father. But if John wasn't himself, Dean couldn't risk tipping him off. He didn't think that was really it.

"What's our plan?" he asked.

***

"Give me a break, Doc." Dean gave the doctor his best you-know-you-wanna smile. "I know my name and what day it is and who's president. You've gotta let me out of here. Man, if I have to watch any more daytime TV I swear..."

The doctor - a grey-haired woman wearing a white coat and an expression of tolerant amusement - ignored his tirade. "Dean, you sustained a severe concussion and there was some bleeding into your brain. It's not serious and will probably repair itself in a few days, but - "

Dean interrupted her again. "I can't stay here a few days. I can't."

"Just overnight."

Dean shook his head. "Level with me, Doc. I leave now, and what? What's the worst that could happen?"

The doctor took a step back, folding her arms over her chest. "The worst that could happen is that the internal bleeding forms a clot and you suffer a fatal stroke."

It was clearly supposed to make Dean hesitate but he forged ahead. "Okay, and what are the chances of that? Really?"

She sighed. "It's unlikely, but - "

"Then I'm out of here." Dean pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was wearing one of those thin hospital gowns that tie at the back, and, unfortunately nothing else.

Before he could jump down from the bed, a familiar figure walked up to the open door. She looked into the room, saw Dean and walked toward them. Jo Harvelle was the last person Dean expected to see, but he was glad to see her. She was wearing a bright green top over her usual tight blue jeans, with a large bag slung over one shoulder. The bag was canvas with pink flowers printed on it.

Jo glanced at Dean, but gave her attention to the doctor, smiling sunnily as she approached. "Hi, doctor, I'm Jo. How's my big brother?"

_Brother?_ Dean stared at her.

The doctor seemed charmed by Jo's smile. Her whole body language changed as she turned to speak to her. "He's stubborn, but he's tough. I think he'll be fine."

Dean grabbed it. "Great! Now, I'm leaving." He started to get down from the bed. Jo stopped him, moving to block his way. Dean narrowed his eyes at her. ""What's up, _sister_?" he said warningly.

She met his eyes, her smile gone. "Dad called me and asked me to take care of you."

"_My _dad?"

She nodded, her eyes flicking to the doctor.

He got the message, but set his jaw stubbornly. "I'm still leavin'."

She faced the doctor, switching on her smile again. "It'll be alright, doctor. I'll take care of him."

The doc sighed. "Fine. You'll have to sign a waiver agreeing you're leaving against medical advice."

Dean grinned. Victory. "Anything. Just get me out of here."

As the doctor left, Dean rounded on Jo. "What the hell are you doin' here? Why'd my dad call you?"

She looked serious. "He didn't, exactly. I called you and he answered your phone." She bit her lip. "Dean, I didn't know what to do so I told him everything. He asked me to come here." She reached into her bag. "There's something you should see."

Dean stopped her. "Okay, Jo, but whatever it is, wait until we're out of here."

"Sure," she said agreeably. She moved as if to sit in the nearest chair.

Dean got down from the bed. "Uh, little sister. Some privacy, please?"

She very deliberately looked him up and down, taking in the shapeless but short hospital gown, his bare legs and feet. "Spoilsport." She left with a grin.

Another day, Dean would have called her back. Not this day. Now all that mattered was finding Sam. Dean hauled up the bag John left for him and pulled out his clothing. He found his phone on top of everything. The jeans were the same ones he'd been wearing when the car hit him. Dean checked the pockets. The bullet was still there in its box, apparently untouched. He pulled the pants on, then socks and his boots.

There was a clean t-shirt inside the bag, but it was wrapped around something hard. Slowly, Dean unfolded the t-shirt. He could feel the shape of a gun inside and he smiled to himself. He should have guessed John would have included a weapon. But then Dean saw what it was and stopped. It was the Colt. Why did Dad leave this for him? Had he been through Dean's pockets? Did he know about the bullet?

Dean ran his finger along the Latin inscription on the barrel. _Non timebo mala_. Fear no evil.

Why would John leave this for him, and not mention it? John gave him the Colt before he'd walked into Meg's trap in Lincoln. _I've been waiting a long time for this fight. Now it's here, and I'm not gonna be in it. It's up to you boys now. It's your fight, you finish this. You finish what I started._

The Colt was a message. Just as John leaving his journal behind in Jericho had been a message. Dean closed his hand around the Colt. He understood. It was his job to find Sam. To find the demon.

He finished dressing quickly. He loaded the bullet into the Colt and hid it in the bottom of his bag.

_I saw you, Dad. You were sitting at a table, alone. The place was empty, just you. You'd been drinking. A lot. There was an empty bottle on the table. I saw you pick up a knife and...and you laid the blade over your wrist. You were gonna do it, Dad. You were going to kill yourself_.

_You boys are everything to me, son, but what this demon wants to do is bigger than our family. More important than all of us_.

Dean swallowed, hard. His father was right. There was one thing more important than finding Sam.

***

Dean ran a loving hand over the grille of the Impala. She seemed unhurt.

Jo watched him check his car, a smile playing around her lips. "Are you done?"

Dean straightened, ignoring her question. "You said you had something to show me?"

"Yeah." Jo reached into her bag and gave Dean something wrapped in a paper napkin.

"What's this?" Dean unwrapped the napkin. Inside was a dirty piece of metal, copper, he thought, but it was hard to tell. There was some sort of symbol etched into it. He rubbed the dirt away with his thumb to get a closer look.

"I found it in the wreckage of that building," Jo volunteered.

"It's a Hermetic talisman," Dean told her. "For protection, I think." He recognised some of the symbols, but he wasn't certain of their meaning. Sam was always the expert in this stuff. He shrugged. "I guess it didn't work too well."

"Dean. I know the amulet." She met his eyes, very serious. "A lot of hunters pass through the Roadhouse. This belongs to Kelly O'Brien. He never takes it off."

Dean looks at the amulet more closely. "He's one of the bodies the cops couldn't identify," he guessed, wishing it was more of a surprise. Or maybe he'd just been poking around the building and lost this. Maybe. Either way, it raised too many questions.

"You didn't tell me there was another hunter on this," Jo said. It sounded like an accusation.

Dean shrugged. "You didn't ask, sweetheart." Let her assume whatever she liked. He wasn't about to tell her what really happened. He gave the talisman back to her. "Can you drive, Jo? I mean, something with gears and no powered steering?"

Her eyes went wide. "You mean your car? Yeah, I guess so." She grinned. "Where are we going?"

_I guess so_ wasn't exactly the answer he'd wanted. Dean cringed inwardly at the thought of letting Jo drive his baby, but he was running out of options. He unlocked the car and tossed his bag onto the back seat. "Nebraska," he told her. We've got to get there before my dad and he's got a long headstart on us. So we don't stop for anything except gas, okay? When I'm too tired, you drive so I can sleep."

Jo nodded, climbing into the car on the passenger side. "Why is it so important to beat John?"

Dean thought again of Sam's vision. "If we don't," he said, "he'll die." He started the engine and turned the volume up on the music to avoid further conversation.

Jo took the hint and was silent as Dean drove out of town. Only when they reached the highway did she turn the music down and turn to him. "You already knew, didn't you? About O'Brien?"

_Shit_. Dean glanced at her. "I knew he was dead. I didn't know he was in the fire, but it makes sense."

"You'd better explain that."

"We've got a long drive ahead, Jo. There'll be plenty of time for stories." _And time,_ Dean hoped, _to come up with a version I can tell you_. He took the phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He punched buttons, a little awkwardly, driving with one hand.

"Who are you calling?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at her impatiently. "The only person who can keep my dad alive if we don't make it." He heard the familiar voice answer his call. "Hey, Bobby, it's Dean. I need a favour."

***

**Harvelle's Roadhouse**

Ellen had closed the bar early so the three of them could be alone. It was only the third time she'd ever done that, and though John hadn't asked, he appreciated it. It was going to take a long time to explain everything.

John plucked a whiskey glass from behind the bar. When Ellen didn't object, he poured whiskey for all of them and carried the bottle over to the table, too. He sat down. They both looked back at him.

John returned Ellen's gaze first. He owed her a lot. She and Bill had been there for him at a time when he'd badly needed friends. Now her eyes were hard as she met his. She wasn't happy that Jo had become involved in John's shit. She was going to be even less happy when he told her everything. John gave Ellen his word that Jo was in no danger but the truth was he didn't know that for certain. If she was with Dean...well, he just had to hope Dean would have the sense to send her home now. He watched Ellen take a gulp of whiskey and her eyes softened, just a little. She might be mad at him, but she was still a friend.

Bobby was another friend he could rely on. John was surprised to find Bobby at the Roadhouse. These days, Bobby didn't leave his place much. When John asked, Bobby simply shrugged and said he wanted a beer. John took the hint.

Now Bobby looked back at him steadily, not touching his whiskey. "Alright, John. Let's hear it."

John drained his glass and poured himself another double. "This will take a while, but you need to hear everything."

"In that case," Bobby suggested dryly, "take it easy on the whiskey. Finish the story _before_ you're under the table."

John pushed the glass away. "You both know the demon came after us - my boys and me - a few weeks ago. It put all three of us in the hospital. Dean was hurt the worst. He was injured before the car wreck..." John took a drink. He'd watched, helpless as the demon used his body to torture Dean. "The doctor made it clear Dean wasn't likely to live. But I couldn't accept that."

John drained his glass and looked at Bobby. He'd already guessed, John knew. Bobby was no fool. He poured more whiskey all around. Ellen might understand. She was a mother, after all.

John told them everything: his deal with the yellow-eyed demon; Sam stopping it from happening; the hunt and the succubus; his history with Sam. He told them what he knew about the exorcism in Jefferson City; about Sam leaving Dean and about their incestuous affair. And finally, he told them what happened in Palo Alto and in Nevada. He told them about Sam and the demon.

It took a long time to tell.

When John finished speaking, there was silence. Then Bobby reached for the whiskey bottle. The bottle clinked against his glass as he poured, then drank. Only then did he look at John.

"Well?" John asked.

Bobby looked grim. "You ain't gonna like it."

"I already don't like it, Bobby. I know I'm fucked to hell. So spill it."

Bobby turned those grim eyes to John. "Sounds to me," he said, "like you were played. Likely from the moment you got the Colt from Elkins."

It wasn't what John expected to hear. "What the hell are you talking about?" he flared.

Bobby returned John's angry look steadily. "Demon may have had plans for Sam, but that was before he was a man. By taking Sam now, it's got a face and a name that a hell of a lot of hunters will trust. It's got his visions, too. That's one power demons don't have. And anyone who knows you knows how far you'd go to save those boys. I don't think it's a coincidence, John. I'm sorry."

Bobby's words twisted the knife in John's heart. The demon hurt Dean, nearly _killed_ Dean, to force John to trade his soul. Was it possible? John didn't think that was the way it went down but he couldn't deny it made sense. Then Sam finding out what he'd done to save Dean, and stopping him, thus becoming the demon's victim...yes, it might have been planned that way.

He'd thought that nothing could make this worse, but Bobby's insight did it. Just the possibility broke something inside of John. He poured more whiskey.

***

_On the long drive to Nebraska, John stopped at one of many nameless gas stations to refuel the truck. The gas station was a lonely place: the only building for miles, two pumps and a single-storey hut for the owner. There was no diner, but there was a vending machine that provided bad coffee in paper cups. John paid for his gas and for a coffee, then drove a few more miles before he stopped to drink it._

_Alone on the side of the road, John sipped the bitter coffee, leaning against the side of the truck and gazing out over endless fields. Mourning his son._

_When he finished the coffee, John turned to climb back into the truck, crumpling the cup in his fist._

_Sam was standing there._

_"Howdy, John." His yellow eyes gleamed in the sunlight. But for the eyes, he looked just like Sam. Same posture, same gestures, even the same smile._

_John's fist tightened around the paper cup. This son of a bitch murdered Mary. It tortured Dean. Now it had taken Sam, too. He thought about that, concentrated on his hatred so it couldn't take from his mind the message he'd left for Dean. Dean was John's last hope. If the demon guessed what he wanted Dean to do, it was over._

_"What do you want?" John snarled._

_"Just checking on my investment. Oh, and I thought you'd want to know about Dean. He left the hospital with that cute little blonde thing." He smiled lasciviously. "Little Jo. Do you think he's fucking her?"_

_John didn't answer. He didn't care who Dean slept with._

_"I'll bet his is," the demon suggested, then, in a stage-whisper, "she looks so much like his mommy."_

_John's fist was beginning to cramp, he was clenching his fingers so tightly. John wanted to hurt him. Stab a knife into his guts. Tear him apart._

_But the body was Sam's and John couldn't do it. He couldn't hurt his son. There might still be a chance to save him._

_So John said nothing and did nothing. He climbed into his truck and drove on_.

***

John met Bobby's eyes over his whiskey glass. "It doesn't matter now, Bobby. All that matters is Sam. There has to be a way to save him. Help me, Bobby. Help me save my boy."

Bobby closed his eyes. John knew before he spoke it was going to be bad news. "John, if it happened the way the demon told you, Sam's dead."

Ellen caught her breath. She made an odd gesture with one hand, as if she'd almost reached for John. She said nothing, only lifted the whiskey to her lips again.

John nodded. "How do we find out for sure? And how do we save Sam if the demon lied to me?"

Bobby shook his head. "I hate to kick a man when he's down, but _we_ ain't doin' anything. There's nothing _you_ can do for Sam. Demon can kill you any time you move against it."

"Bobby!" Ellen said sharply. It was the first thing she'd said since John began his story.

"Ellen, he's right," John said. "I sold my soul. The demon will collect when it's ready and there's not a damn thing can stop it." He looked at Bobby, searching his friend's face for some thread of hope. He saw only grief and regret.

Bobby rose from the table. "I've got some books may have somethin'. I don't know if I can help, but I'll try."

John knew Bobby well enough to translate that as _we're fucked_. He nodded anyway. "Thanks."

"John," Ellen began, "you know I've got to spread the word on this."

"Yeah. That's why I came here. And to ask..."

"Anything," she offered.

"Take care of my boy, if he'll let you. He won't understand what I've got to do."

"Done." Ellen's calm façade frayed at the edges as she spoke. She'd always been so good at hiding her feelings; the emotion poking through the mask was just the tip of the iceberg. "John..." she said, her voice breaking.

John smiled. "It's past and gone, Ellen. Can't be changed. No need to say anything about it." They were her words, not his.

She nodded, swallowed and stood up. "You want a bed for the night, John?"

"No. I'm fine here."

"You shouldn't be alone..."

"I'm fine here," he repeated.

She held out a hand. "Then give me your gun," she said firmly.

John didn't bother arguing. He gave her the gun and they left him alone.

***

How can you tell the right thing to do when every choice available is wrong?

John drank the last of the whiskey in one swallow straight from the bottle. He wasn't drunk. Or, not drunk enough.

He had done everything he could. It was damage control, nothing more, but Bobby was right. John couldn't be a part of this fight. He would be a liability at best, a danger at worst.

Sam was gone. He knew that now, beyond doubt. If there was any real hope, Bobby would have told him.

Perhaps it wasn't John's doing. He knew that demons lie, and he knew how much the demon had enjoyed twisting this particular knife. _I really want to tell you this part because I know you'll...appreciate it, John. It's so delicious. I couldn't have planned it better._

He remembered kissing Sam, the way the taste of him tightened his body, the slow slide of his tongue in Sam's mouth. He remembered sex with Sam, the heat of Sam's body, the damp warmth of sweat, the small sounds Sam made when they fucked. _Oh, god, Sammy..._ John blinked back tears and swallowed the lump in his throat.

John's real problem was the Colt.

When Dean was dying, he had offered the Colt to the demon in trade for Dean's life, and he'd considered it a good deal. He couldn't afford to be so careless now. John had assumed the demon's pursuit of the Colt was because the Colt could kill the demon. It could kill _anything_, according to the legend. But all of the bullets were gone and without them the Colt was just a useless antique...or so John had believed. But the demon still wanted it.

Why? John didn't need to know. It was enough to know the Colt still had some kind of significance.

The demon could not be allowed to get its hands on the Colt.

John's deal included the Colt and the demon could force him to hand it over. A deal was a deal.

There was only one way out. John had to die _before_ the demon came to claim its due.

He pulled the knife from his boot and stared at it. The blade was clean and very sharp. The steel caught the lights behind the bar and gleamed silver.

He had no illusions that he could escape his deal. No, you don't sell your soul to Hell and look for a loophole. If the demon killed him or something else did, the demon would still claim his soul. But perhaps he could do this. He could deny the demon this one thing. It might be a small thing, insignificant. He didn't know. But it was _something_. One final defiance. One last revenge.

One desperate hope that he might be making a difference in this fight.

John laid the blade against his wrist. He knew how to cut. It would be quick.

_I'm sorry, son. I'm so very sorry_.

He closed his eyes. He thought of Mary, of her smile and her wicked sense of humour and her courage. He thought of Dean and would have prayed for him if he had believed God would listen. He began to press down with the blade.

A hand closed around John's wrist - the hand holding the knife - and jerked his hand upward painfully. John found himself staring into Dean's angry eyes.

"You selfish son of a bitch!" Dean hissed.

"Dean - " John began. He didn't know how to explain.

Dean squeezed down on John's wrist. "You don't get to do this," he insisted. His voice was low and furious. "You don't get to take the easy way out. There's a way to save Sam. I don't know how, yet, but you're gonna help me find it." His other hand closed over John's blade.

John let go of the knife.

#### End of _Slouching Toward Bethlehem_

**One final note:** I know some readers will be thinking "You can't end it there!" For me, this is where the story ends. _Slouching Toward Bethlehem_ was intended from the beginning to be a fairly dark story, but I wanted to end in a place where there's at least a glimmer of hope. The clues as to what will happen next are all in the story if you look for them. That said, as always, my fic is fair game. If anyone else wants to write a sequel, you are welcome, and I'd enjoy seeing it.


End file.
